My sons

I have spent various snatches of this morning attempting to organize my and Jack's desks. We traded because I needed a desk with drawers and he wanted a white desk to better go with the new vision he has for his room. A win-win, but it prompted the removal and unpacking of half a room (because we also switched the location of his desk and dresser); I am flabbergasted by all that child has managed to sock away in there since we moved in in February. And I thought Oliver was the hoarder.

Anyway, I got out my label maker, turned it on, and was greeted by the last phrase printed: USS Anus.

People, I am still laughing. I have no idea which child wrote that or for which ship it was destined. #boys

I would also like to share with you the latest persuasive writing exercise by which I was tested: a 4-part manifesto on all the reasons Jack needs yet another Fitbit.

Let me first say that unless your child needs to track his or her steps for health purposes, a 4th grader does not need a Fitbit. As such, T and I insisted that Jack purchase his own Fitbit, and so he searched and found a "bargain" one. It arrived, and we returned it one week later. You really can't cheap out on some things.

The second was a branded FitBit from the very low end of their price spectrum. It's the one you clip to your pocket rather than wear on your wrist. Jack swore this was the best choice because "then I can still wear the watch I bought at Cinecittà. I don't want to wear two things on one wrist or one thing on each wrist." Fair enough.

For who knows what reason, my dear son has recently gotten a burr in his butt about needing a new Fitbit. "I'll pay for it, Mom," he wept recently. "No, son, this is where I save you and your hard-earned money from yourself. The answer is no."

Which resulted in this:

He's good, isn't he? Even though my answer remains a resolute "No!" I admit to being momentarily swayed by all the sweetness and light. 

Oh!

That he is mine. ❤️ 

That this was part of dinner. 

That this bayou and sky graced us tonight.  

When kids should be neither seen nor heard

There are days, and today was such, I could stand to do without spending much time with the boys.

They are loud and messy and uncouth. They whine and argue and burp lyrics to songs. They scratch their butts and chew hangnails. They hide their clean and folded laundry instead of putting it away. They negotiate, futilely but aggressively, for dessert at breakfast. It is tiring to argue about nonsensical things before 8am.

We got to the camp bus stop and because Oliver insisted on bringing a robot, derby cap and walkie talkie in the car, he’d accidentally left his lunchbox at home. I knew where I’d find it: near his closet where he put it down to fetch the houndstooth cap from its hook. Another sandwich bites the dust.

Home later after the gym, I found and unpacked the lunchbox and saved what I could. I surveyed their rooms and saw dirty underpants crotch-out on the floors. Open boxes of now-stale anything littered their desks and the dark spaces under their beds. The sink looked as if they'd tried to frost a porcelain cake using toothpaste. A Jackson Pollock had been crafted on the wall with rebounding pee.

“This is what ‘I know you can do it by yourself! Independence, darlings!’ gets me,” I mused aloud.

The sheer number of crumbs that Hansel & Hansel had dropped on the breakfast table and then along the path upstairs was staggering. Surely it could wrap the Earth. The dustbuster’s battery petered out before I sucked the crap away.

I was so glad they were at camp. I was so grateful for their lengthy day away.

So I caramelized shallots...

Days like these sometimes blindside me although I'm starting to think that if I carefully mapped my life, Mondays would really be off the chart in terms of the kids being annoying and my tolerance, or lack thereof, for it. 

Weekends are anything but Sabbathy. Come Sunday night, Tom and I often look at each other askance and ask, with both worry and hope, “Will this ever be less depleting?”

Although it is exhausting to be an at-home mom of little ones, I watch Tom leave each weekday morning and think, “How the fuck does he do it?” On, on, on. All the time on. I try to give him down time when I can because, if only for a few hours, I get a taste of that most days; if you count errands and laundry and wiping pee walls and vacuuming up the Earth’s belt as down time which I often do because at least I don’t have to be on.

Or dressed in any quasi-professional way.

I hit a wall today. Was it the training run on Saturday? The play dates + produce + family get together over the weekend? Was it being awakened well before 7am for oh, nine years now? Was it latent anxiety that just wears and erodes?

I dunno but come this evening, when Ol wouldn’t pick up the Legos that he’d cycloned throughout his room but wanted to get out the Halloween bag-of-bones (and naturally cyclone out and then not pick those up either) and then cried and went boneless over my refusal to unearth said bag-of-bones without first seeing a Lego-free floor, I just wanted to quit.

When Jack came down again and again and again from bed, despite the years we’ve spent talking about what bedtime means, I just wanted to quit.

I wanted to finish making dinner for T and me, to try and connect in the thirty minutes during which we’re both just awake enough to talk.

for this tart that actually came together...

Another hug, another kiss, another sad glance at the newspapers that will be recycled instead of read.

“Tomorrow is anothuh day,” I intoned a la Scarlett.

It is.

I think it is.

Is that a good thing?

I think so.

I hope so.

I’m tired.

and really hit the spot.

Tom has banished me, with all the love in his being, to the basement; our secret hideaway. I accept!